


Fair Enough (5 Things McCree Can Do But Doesn't Let On + 1 He Simply Won't)

by AsheRhyder



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Badass Jesse McCree, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, Hidden Depths, Hidden Talents, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:50:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsheRhyder/pseuds/AsheRhyder
Summary: “So what do you say? You interested?” McCree’s smile was as wide and inviting as an open door. Hanzo looked over the scruffy cowboy with a critical eye and a severe frown.“No,” he said and watched the door shut, quiet and easy.“Fair enough.” McCree tipped his hat and sauntered off.In the months that followed, Hanzo learned many things about McCree that made him change his opinion on man; amazing, curious, and terrifying things. The most infuriating of them being this:Jesse McCree never asked twice.





	Fair Enough (5 Things McCree Can Do But Doesn't Let On + 1 He Simply Won't)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @Vashoth for beta'ing.

 

A month after Hanzo joined Overwatch, McCree propositioned him. 

“You’re a handsome fella, damn good shot, and I bet that wicked tongue of yours is good for more than just cuttin’ a man’s ego down to size,” said McCree. “I know a few fun tricks myself, and I’d be happy to show ‘em to you if you like. We could have a good time. So what do you say? You interested?” 

His smile was as wide and inviting as an open door. Hanzo looked over the scruffy cowboy with a critical eye and a severe frown. He didn’t know much about the other man and that alone was reason enough to turn him down, even if the electric buzz in the back of his neck and the inked skin of his left arm tried to convince him that for once a mystery could be more interesting than dangerous.

“No,” he said, and just like that, the door shut, easy but firm, surprisingly final.

“Fair enough.” McCree tipped his hat and sauntered off. 

 

“You should have taken him up on it,” Genji told him when Hanzo complained of the strange interaction later. “He is quite talented.” 

The look on Hanzo’s face made Genji chuckle. 

“I am not interested in bedding a person of such… loose reputation.” He grimaced. 

“Such a prude.” 

“I meant,” Hanzo snapped, “that I am not interested in meaningless dalliances.” 

Genji shrugged. 

“Suit yourself, brother. Though I must say that I have never known McCree to make an effort on anything he did not think truly worthy.”

“That is hardly a glowing commendation.” 

“When you get to know him better, you will see.” 

 

The First Thing: Cook

 

The majority of Overwatch members were chefs of necessity, able to cook a handful of relatively quick and simple dishes that they didn’t mind eating over and over again. It was a byproduct of the kinds of lives they lived; busy, chaotic, and frequently on the move. The easiest way to get some variety was to avail themselves to the talents of their teammates; there was a brisk, unofficial “market” where people traded extra portions of their meals like children swapping parts of their bagged lunches in school. There were some hit or misses: only a handful of people were prepared for the amount of spice in Hana’s  _ bibimbap _ , and the one time Torbjörn brought  _ surströmming _ from home resulted in him being banned from the kitchen all together. 

Still, nothing could have prepared Hanzo for what happened after the day McCree sauntered into the kitchen, stared into the fridge, and hummed thoughtfully. 

“Who’s leftovers are these?” He asked, poking at a pot. “Looks like… some kind of stew?”

“It belongs to Zarya.” Hanzo said. “She said it is not up for trade.” 

“Fair enough.” McCree put the pot back and pulled out a wrapped plate. “What about the  _ onigiri _ ?” 

“Mine,” Hanzo replied. “Though you may have them, if you wish.” 

“What, really?” McCree perked up. “Mighty fine. All right then, I’ll owe you one.” 

“Unnecessary.” Hanzo tried to wave him off, but McCree already had a mouthful of  _ onigiri _ and the rapturous expression of someone who’d just gotten the perfect blend of lightly salted rice and sour  _ umeboshi _ . 

“Nope. No, I gotta. Man’s gotta pay his debts, Shimada-san.” He took another bite and groaned appreciatively. Hanzo ignored that buzz of lightning behind his ears at the sound. “Are you more of a sweet or savory fella?” 

“What do you think?” 

McCree gave him a critical look, far more calculating than any he’d seen on the man’s face off the battlefield. For an instant, Hanzo wondered if he shouldn’t duck behind cover. 

Then McCree cracked a wry smile. 

“Tart, then. I can work with that. Save yourself for dinner tomorrow, Shimada-san. I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“That is really unnecessary--” Hanzo protested, but McCree was already moseying back out of the kitchen, his attention fully on his dinner. 

 

Hanzo spent the next day full of apprehension at whatever western abomination McCree would drag in for him. He had horrible visions of campfires and tin cans. At best, he hoped that the cowboy would hand him some jerky or some of the pre-made food he was frequently seen to eat. He idly wondered about trying to go off on an impromptu “training journey”, but no, that would be cowardly. He would face this ordeal. 

To his surprise, the dining room outside of the kitchen was packed with nearly the entire team. They stared at the door with hungry eyes. A few of them even licked their lips. 

“What are you doing?” Hanzo made the mistake of asking, drawing their attention to him instead. 

“Hanzo!” Hana lurched across the room and grabbed his wrist. “Hanzo, you gotta tell him to make some for the rest of us too, please? C’mon, this is just cruel.” 

“Who is making what?” Hanzo planted his feet to keep from being dragged off of them. 

“McCree!” She pouted. “He’s making  _ crepes _ .” 

Hanzo stared at her, sure he had misheard.

“McCree? The cowboy?” 

“Yeah, you know, 6’1, looks like he came out of a Clint Eastwood movie, says ‘Howdy’ and stuff?” She tugged harder. 

“He is… cooking?” 

McCree stepped into the doorway, holding a large bowl in one hand and stirring it lazily with the other. 

“I told you I owed you for the  _ onigiri _ , Shimada-san.” He said. “You just go ahead and sit down. I’ll have it out for you in a jiffy.” 

Hanzo looked at McCree. The cowboy had a dusting of white powder across his cheek, most likely flour, and the shine of something red on his smiling lips. Hanzo fought down the shiver that threatened to descend from the back of his neck all the way down his spine. There was no invitation in McCree’s voice, only the same congenial warmth that he held for any of his teammates. The man didn’t even wink as he disappeared back into the kitchen. 

Hana pulled him to sit at the table, and everyone around him sighed heavily as the sizzle of melting butter filled the air. 

A little while later, McCree came back holding a plate. Three golden crepes sat in the middle, drizzled lightly with chocolate and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Sliced strawberries peeked out of the ends of the rolls, and a crown of fluffy whipped cream sat on top like a cloud. Hanzo had seen crepes from actual restaurants that didn’t look as good.

“Here you go. It’s been a while since I done this, so lemme know if it’s no good and I’ll rustle you up something else instead.” McCree set down a knife and fork. Someone whined; Hanzo couldn’t see who because that would mean taking his eyes off the glory in front of him, and that was an impossible task. Hana elbowed him in the ribs. 

“If you don’t eat that right now, I’m stealing it from you.” She hissed. 

“You’ll do no such thing,” McCree said sharply. “That there’s a debt I’m paying back, and I aim to keep my books balanced, thank you kindly. However, I might be convinced to make one for anybody who helps clean up.” 

There was a sudden rush on the kitchen. McCree chuckled, then looked down at Hanzo’s untouched plate. 

“You doing all right there? Not a fan of crepes?” 

Hanzo hurriedly cut a piece and took a bite. The tartness of the berry balanced out with the sweetness of the glaze and sugar on it, mixing with the subtle streaks of chocolate and cream. 

“It is good,” he said. “Thank you.” 

McCree relaxed. 

“No need for thanks. Like I said, I’m just keeping my books balanced.” He started to turn back to the kitchen. 

“I did not know you could cook,” Hanzo blurted out, surprising himself. He quickly took another bite to shut himself up. McCree didn’t seem concerned. 

“Don’t see much reason to bother,” he shrugged, eyes hooded. “I ain’t too fussy about what I eat. Just as easy to find what’s already been made.” 

Hanzo didn’t know what to say to that, so he continued eating. McCree seemed just as satisfied as if he’d answered. 

“I better go make good on my word,” he sighed. “You enjoy that, then. I’ll get one of ‘em to clean up your plate when you’re done.” He walked back to the kitchen. Hanzo decided to attribute the tingling behind his jaw to the intense flavor of the strawberries.

  
  


Thing Two: Sew

 

The amount of care that McCree took in his physical appearance bordered on non-existent. He never seemed to trim his beard or comb his hair. If something spilled on his clothes, he simply shrugged and let it stain. For that matter, either the man wore the same thing several days in a row, or he had multiple copies of the same beige shirt and brown pants. The hem of his serape hosted holes and tears nearly as big as Hanzo’s hands. Overall, he gave the appearance of someone perfectly content to wear his clothes to rags. 

So it was to Hanzo’s continued surprise when, after one particular mission, McCree stripped off his torn shirt in the back of the dropship. 

“What are you doing?” Hanzo hissed, sitting up as McCree draped the damaged cloth on the table. 

“This is my lucky shirt,” McCree muttered, examining the rip. It was a clean slash through the side, a line that would have gone straight through his liver if he hadn’t managed to dodge at the last minute. But he had pulled off the dodge, and his opponent’s blade just got his clothing. Hanzo entertained the thought that perhaps the garment  _ was _ lucky, to have sacrificed itself for its wearer. 

McCree glanced around the room. 

“Hey, Reinhardt, can you hand me that box by your left?” 

Reinhardt, however, was all but dozing in his seat, and rather than repeat himself McCree simply strolled over and picked up the box. Reinhardt startled awake when McCree leaned past him. 

“My apologies! I did not hear you,” he boomed, and McCree gave him an easy smile. 

“Fair enough,” he replied. “Still, no need to trouble yourself. You know my rule.” 

He turned around and didn’t see Reinhardt’s expression crumple like a parent the first time their grown child said they didn’t have time to come see them. 

McCree settled in at the table and popped open the box. Hanzo’s eyebrows rose in surprise as the man pulled out a needle and thread and began to mend the cut. 

“You can sew?” Hanzo found himself asking. 

“Ayup,” McCree said without taking his eyes off his work. He made swift, even stitches with a sureness of hand that spoke of hours and hours of practice. “My old boss taught me, once upon a time, for Halloween costumes and stuff. Good for more than just patchin’ up a shirt, too, though at least the shirt don’t squirm.” 

“I was just… surprised.” Hanzo admitted. “You do not keep your serape in good condition.” 

“It’s part of the aesthetic.” McCree shrugged and tied off the thread. He examined his handiwork, an exercise that drew Hanzo’s gaze away from the man’s clever fingers and down the muscle of his arms and back before McCree put on his shirt again. 

“The aesthetic,” Hanzo repeated dubiously. 

“A little wear and tear shows you’re in the work,” said McCree. “Lets people know you’re not above getting your hands dirty.” 

Hanzo continued staring, and eventually McCree leaned back, resting one hand over the mended part of his shirt. His gaze remained fixed on some distant, unseen point, and in that moment he seemed unreachable. Hanzo watched McCree’s fingers tighten, then go slack. 

“You could buy a new one,” he did not say. A man who mended a ‘lucky’ shirt would not hear such words, and anyone who shouldered heavy memories to use old skills would not appreciate them. 

 

Thing Three: Schedule

 

Jesse McCree had the patience of a rock. That wasn’t to say the man didn’t get antsy before a mission, or didn’t pace outside the medical ward with the best of them when someone got badly hurt, or didn’t go charging like a bull after Hana when she dropped a balloon full of ice water down the back of his serape. What it meant was that he was perfectly content to hold his ground come hell or high water, as he would put it. It meant that he waited without complaint whenever he wanted a turn for the practice range, stepping into whatever available slot happened to turn up that day. It meant that he sat through hours of other people’s shows for a chance to watch his favorite film when they were done. It meant that he always found the perfect moment to slide in to grab a bottle of pills or a few minutes with Mercy and her Caduceus Staff rather than schedule an actual appointment to treat a minor post-training injury.

Hanzo, in the medical ward for a leg wound that wasn’t healing the way Angela wanted it to, saw McCree poke his head in and smile. 

“Hey there,” he drawled. Angela sighed, frustrated but fond. 

“What did you do now, Jesse McCree?” she asked. 

“Nothin’ much. Just got a little…” He rolled his shoulder with a wince. “...during training yesterday. Ain’t been able to get it to sit right. I was hoping you could take a look at it?”  Angela shook her head and went for her staff. 

“You should have come to me sooner,” she chided. “Take your shirt off and let me take a look. You are lucky I am not busier right now.” 

McCree’s smile was thin and sharp and said that luck had nothing to do with it, but her back was still to him, and she didn’t see. Hanzo did. 

Hanzo also saw the massive bruise that spread across the cowboy’s right side, painting his shoulder blade and part of the back of his arm in vivid colors.

“You know me, Angie.” McCree chuckled, easy-going and light despite the discomfort that creased around his eyes. “Why make a plan for something that’s a pain?”

"To ensure that it can stop being a pain, Jesse.” She looked ready to continue, but was interrupted by Athena over the medical ward’s comm system. 

“Mercy, please report to Training Room B for a Delta-level incident; Mercy, to Training Room B for a Delta-level incident.” 

Angela shut her mouth and gave McCree a knowing look. 

“Stay put. I will be back to deal with you shortly.” 

“Fair enough.” She winced at his words, but he gave her a little wave and hopped up on her desk. Whatever retort she would have made was drowned out by Athena repeating the summons, upgrading the Incident to a Beta-level.  

 

Hanzo tried to let his mind drift away from his accidental eavesdropping, but something about McCree drew his attention like a lodestone. He wanted to say it was not because the man was still shirtless, acres of bronzed skin and a trail of dark hair on display. He wanted to say it was not because the man’s attention flickered over everything in the medical ward, clever eyes cataloging everything before him for its utility as a weapon or cover. He wanted to say it was not because of the electric buzz building behind his ears and running down his spine and out to his fingertips, an instinct that something was about to happen that he would miss if he so much as blinked. 

What he wanted was inconsequential, because something buzzed softly, and McCree went as tense as a drawn bowstring. Dark eyes slid over to meet Hanzo’s, calculating, before finally coming to some decision that twisted McCree’s lips into a smirk. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a generic-looking burner phone. It did not resemble the Overwatch communicator in the slightest. 

“McCree here,” he drawled into it without taking his gaze from Hanzo’s. Whoever was on the other end was not loud enough to be overheard. “Yeah. Yeah. No, I told you, I ain’t doing that one. ‘Cause he’s a lying bastard, and I ain’t gonna touch that with a ten foot pole. Nope. Really? That’s the best you got? There we go. See? A’ight then. No, I ain’t in the States. I’ll take the other one. Yeah, that’ll work. You know the fee, and you got the number. Standard procedure; half now, half when I’m done. I’ll call you back at… gimme a sec.” McCree leaned back to check the clock on Angela’s wall, displaying the ripple of muscles down his torso. Hanzo felt his mouth go dry. “Nine AM. No, not my time, you ass, your time tomorrow. Of course I know you’re on Eastern Daylight. I ain’t calling you at three AM, even though I oughta for the shit you say. Gimme about a week to finish, unless your intel is shit again. I’ll call again on Thursday, same time.” 

McCree hung up the phone and tucked it back into his pocket. He slid off the desktop and put on his shirt back on with a small wince. 

“Do me a favor and tell Angela I’ll catch up to her later,” he said. Hanzo stiffened to be suddenly addressed. 

“You are not going to tell them where you are going?”

“They don’t need to know the details of my day job.” McCree chuckled as Hanzo’s brows knit together in confusion. “Being a hero’s great and all, and damn if I didn’t miss this whole “save the world” gig, but it don’t pay the bills.”

“You are an internationally wanted man.”

“And you’re ex-yakuza. Didn’t stop you none.”

“I meant, what kind of bills do you have to pay that you cannot avoid by staying with Overwatch?” Hanzo coughed. 

McCree just smiled and shook his head. 

“Don’t you worry about it none. I ain’t on any mission roster for the foreseeable future, and if they need me, I’ll have my comm.”

Hanzo struggled to find something else to say, anything that would stop him from disappearing into the unknown. 

“That wound does not look good.” He said, and cursed himself for the stupidity of the statement. “You should wait for Angela to fix it before you leave.” 

“I’ll make do.” McCree shrugged. His expression hardened against a wince, that cool and distant look settling in his eyes as he stole a bottle of painkillers and a canister of biotic salve from the counter.

“She said she would return soon--”

“A man’s gotta have rules, Hanzo, and I ain’t about to break mine.” McCree squared his shoulders and walked back to the door. “Be seein’ you.” 

McCree came back a little more than a week later. He spent a full day waiting around to catch Angela to heal him, and nearly as long again getting yelled at because it turned out he managed to bruise or break all the ribs on his right side, and he really ought to have said something sooner. Once she had him back in order, he just smiled, tipped his hat, and thanked her. 

 

Hanzo wondered what that rule was, that he would break his bones before breaking it.

  
  


Thing Four: Pay the Bills

 

At first, Hanzo thought there must be some secret account that funded the organization. It wasn’t cheap to feed their small army, and the myriad of specialized ammunition used by the team members was neither inexpensive nor easy to manufacture without certain connections that were no longer available to vigilantes. He wasn’t entirely sure where the money came from, but every so often he’d catch McCree coming back from some errand or another carrying food, supplies, or discrete boxes of munitions. 

McCree made most of the supply runs, Hanzo realized. In fact, McCree invited himself along on pretty much any occasion where someone was going shopping. He never pushed; for a man who walked around dressed like a cowboy, he was remarkably good at fading into the background and just turning up when it came time to pay. 

The day Hanzo came back with his hair shaved to an undercut and a number of piercings, the younger members of the team immediately dragged him back out to pick up a new wardrobe. 

“But I have clothes--” he protested. 

“Not that match your new look! C’mon, we have to get you something good. You can’t do this halfway.” Hana insisted. 

“I did not do it halfway--” he tried again, thinking of the clothes in his bag he had yet to take the tags off. 

“Better just to come along already,” McCree chuckled, keys to one of the hover-cars in the garage already in hand. “She’s liable to call out her MEKA to pick you up and carry you off if you don’t.” 

“See? Even McCree is with me on this one. Now if only we could get him out of that cowboy stuff…” 

“Sorry, Hana, but I’m already wearing what I like.” He laughed. “I fought too hard for this hat to let it go now.” 

“What about the belt buckle?” She winced. 

“Fought even harder for that one.” 

Hana sighed and settled for turning mournful eyes to Hanzo. 

“Please don’t make me and Lúcio carry the good looks on this team. It’s a heavy burden to make up for that disaster over there.” Hanzo’s gaze cut up to McCree, who seemed to take her words with amusement rather than offense. 

“...very well.” Hanzo sighed. “But we are getting food while we are out, and it will be something with redeeming nutritional value, not the junk that you usually eat.” 

“Fine, fine…” Hana huffed. McCree’s smile slipped a little wider and warmer, but he turned away and got into the car instead of saying anything. 

 

Hanzo mostly let Hana lead the outing. She dragged them from one shop to another, but in her defense, she took mobility and utility into consideration when she handed him clothes to try on, avoiding things that would interfere with the draw on his bow or his climbing. Hanzo and McCree exchanged glances over her head while she flitted around like a hummingbird, each wondering if they’d ever had so much energy. 

 

When she finally finished, Hanzo prepared to hand the cashier his credit chip, but McCree leaned over and presented one first. Hanzo recognized the device as the sleek, discreet black style typical of offshore accounts. His was very similar, acquired via certain circumstances of flexible legality. 

“I can handle my own attire,” he said. 

“Fair enough.” McCree inclined his head. “But I ought to take responsibility since I badgered you into lettin’ her have her way. She had a rough mission while you were gone, and we ain’t been able to get her to smile since, not ‘til you came along with all this.” His eyes raked over Hanzo’s new look, and Hanzo was stunned enough to let McCree finish the transaction. 

 

Later, when they went to lunch, Hanzo caught McCree handing that same black credit chip to the waiter to pay for lunch. This time, so did Hana. 

“Did you just check-ninja me?” She glared at him. McCree just smiled and held up his hands peaceably. 

“I plead the fifth,” he drawled. 

“That doesn’t work in Europe!” She poked him. “One of these days, I’ll get it before you do!” 

“Fastest draw in the West, little darlin’.” He chuckled. “You’ll have plenty of time to have to pay your own way when you get to be my age. Enjoy it while you can.” 

Hana fumed and tried to give Hanzo a look of, “do you believe this guy?” but Hanzo was busy putting mental puzzle pieces together and coming up with a picture that didn’t even remotely resemble the one he’d seen on the box. 

 

Hanzo approached Winston once they returned to base and asked a question he probably should have asked the first day of his recruitment. 

“Where does Overwatch acquire its operational funding?” 

Winston flustered and fumbled with his glasses, having not expected a budget inquisition. 

“Well, some of it comes from patents; I had quite a few of those during the old days, and they still produce enough to keep me in peanut butter…” He said. Hanzo raised an eyebrow, because even if Winston’s income could offset the food, there was no way he had invented enough marketable devices to pay for Tracer’s blaster ammo or Reinhardt’s repairs and rocket fuel. 

“And the rest?” 

“Overwatch used to have a number of discretionary accounts open for different departments and purposes.” Winston cleared his throat. “Most of them were frozen or seized when the organization was originally shut down, but a few were… ah… how to put this… less well known… and went unnoticed.” 

Hanzo’s stare bore through Winston’s hesitance like a drill. 

“Agent McCree brought them to my attention when he answered the Recall. I believe he took control of them after the Fall; I suspect he makes deposits after he goes off on those jobs he thinks I don’t know about.” Winston sighed. “I wish I could tell him he didn’t have to do that anymore, but, well.” The gorilla gave a hopeless shrug. “It isn’t as if we have government funding to fall back on.” 

Hanzo’s mouth thinned to a tense line. 

“Please allow me to make a contribution of the funds I liberated from my clan upon my departure from them,” he said. “I can think of no better use for them than to aid in the protection of the world.” 

Winston boggled. 

“Oh, I-- well -- thank you! Thank you very much!” 

“I will get the details necessary for the transfer to you as soon as possible.” Hanzo bowed sharply to prevent Winston from trying to shake his hand, or worse, hug him. Winston was very good at controlling his strength, but the lightning storm building behind Hanzo’s jaw was too intense for him to endure close proximity. 

He turned on his heel and walked away. 

 

Thing Five: Quit Smoking

In the time since Hanzo had first laid eyes on McCree, he could count on one hand the number of occasions the man did not have a cigarillo in his mouth.  It wasn’t always lit; he didn’t tend to smoke indoors or anywhere it might cause a hazard, but there was usually something between his teeth, and if there wasn't, it was because he was getting a new one.

Hanzo supposed that four hours without a smoke was just too much to ask of the man, even if the interrogation of a captured Talon agent was going poorly. It was a small mission, just the two of them. They weren’t even supposed to run into any trouble, just scout for potential future bases and safehouses. But the agent they captured was stupid enough to wear the damn logo on their jacket and stubborn enough to resist all the interrogation techniques of the Shimada clan that did not involve blades, hardware, or creative use of furniture. He would rather not have to resort to simple violence, but he had very little to work with. 

McCree stood outside the door of their makeshift interrogation room. Sometimes the song he whistled to occupy himself would wind its way inside. It was beginning to wear Hanzo down as much as his lack of success. The fourth time Hanzo came out to take a break, McCree lit his cigarillo.

“Must you?” he sighed, rolling his eyes at his companion. McCree blew out smoke in a series of rings.  

“I must,” he replied. “It’s been four hours. Can’t you hurry it up a little?”

“Would you like to try instead while I lurk around and smoke?” Hanzo asked archly. McCree chuckled. 

“Fair enough. I don’t much go in for this sort of thing anymore, but you’re right: you’re doing all the hard work.” He tossed Hanzo his lighter and his case of cigarillos, stepped through the door, and closed it behind him. Hanzo was a little bit surprised to hear the lock click. He stared down at the door knob, confused. Surely McCree had not… 

No, it was definitely locked. There was a low susurrus on the other side, too faint for him to make out words or tone. There was a gasp. Silence. A choked protest. 

A minute passed. Then another. 

Then the lock clicked again, and McCree opened the door. There was no sign of his cigarillo anywhere. 

“Our canary’s ready to sing,” he said. Hanzo peered around him to see the Talon agent blubbering into his collar. He looked untouched, without sign of bruise or burn. McCree turned back around. The sound of his spurs made their captive flinch. 

Hanzo scowled at McCree, who just shrugged and took back his lighter. 

He did not, Hanzo noticed, take out a new cigarillo. 

He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

 

+One He Won’t: Ask Twice 

There was one rule McCree wouldn’t break. Cards, board games, video games, unofficial lists posted on the refrigerator door, laws both civil and religious… there wasn’t a rule he couldn’t bend to his whim, save one: 

“I don’t ask twice.” 

McCree stared down at the last Talon agent with cold, hard eyes, Peacekeeper aimed at the woman’s forehead. She sneered at him and spat out half a curse before he pulled the trigger and walked away. 

Hanzo hopped down from his perch to follow him back to the drop ship. 

“I could have interrogated her,” he said by way of reproach. “Yours is not the only way to get information from a reluctant tongue.” 

McCree just shook his head. 

“A man’s gotta have rules,” he said, and the reappearance of those words sent a rush of frost up through Hanzo’s lungs. “I don’t ask twice. Not for intel, not for the salt, not for anything under the sun. I spent too long being told where to go and what to do, and now that I’m free, I aim to do exactly as I please.” He cracked a grin at the startled look on Hanzo’s face. 

“That seems… imprudent…” Hanzo ventured.

“What I want ain’t complicated.” McCree shrugged. “I want to do right by those who’ve been wronged with no one to speak up for them. I want to stop those who’d hurt people who can’t stand up for themselves. I want to spend my time the way I please, with who I want and who wants me. Don’t need to waste time running after them that don’t.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I spent too much time chasing things I couldn’t have already.” 

Hanzo felt the lightning behind his ears crackle down through his shoulders and settle like a knot in his abdomen, a churning, electric ball of feelings to which he had not dared give names. 

“Really? You never ask twice?” He almost didn’t recognize his own voice; it sounded too steady and calm in his ears against the frantic rush to assemble the final pieces of the puzzle that was Jesse McCree. A man who could cook, but did not care to on his own account. A man who kept the things dear to him close by, even when it seemed impractical to make that effort. A man who’d walk out on treating wounds and wait on broken bones just because it wasn’t convenient to his schedule, a schedule he warped and wove around his whim. A man who stole from the dying remains of a once-great organization, only to turn around and not just give his stolen loot to the organization’s successor, but who continued to pour the fruit of his labor back into it. A man who could do terrible things without doing anything at all, whose silence was more terrifying than the loudest of his curses. 

What sort of a man was Jesse McCree? 

“Really.” McCree replied, a bit softer than usual. His gaze lingered just a split second too long, just a feather’s weight too heavy, before he blinked and turned away. “I never ask twice. One and done; if it’s a no-go, well, fair enough. Can’t say I didn’t try.” The lightning in Hanzo’s stomach raced back up his spine and out through every nerve ending. He took slow, measured breaths to ensure he didn’t choke on the static.  

“You never wanted to? Ask again, that is?” 

McCree let out a sharp puff of breath. The line of his back tensed so much it must have been painful. 

“I gave it a shot,” he said tersely. “Sometimes I regret asking early, but I won’t waste my time on anybody’s whim but my own.” He stalked off to the ship, long legs making short work of the distance. 

 

Hanzo eventually got the feeling back in his limbs and wandered after him. 

 

“He really never asks twice?” He asked Genji later. Genji responded with a long hiss that that may have been a sigh. 

“Not that I have seen,” he admitted. “But I only knew him for a few years before the Fall. He had been part of Overwatch for a long time before that.” 

“Never?” Hanzo asked Reinhardt, remembering the expression on the other man’s face over the missed sewing kit. Reinhardt shakes his head. 

“It is a rule he made up as he got older,” he said. “He was so young when he started. I remember-- well. I remember he was young, and the young… do not always get to make their own choices.” 

“Fair enough.” Hanzo thought, perched somewhere he ought not be to watch McCree work his way through a training session in the time slot Hanzo had conveniently abandoned. 

“Fair enough.” Hanzo thought, exaggerating a twisted ankle to get McCree to help him up to the medical ward and conveniently mentioning McCree’s bruised back to Angela while he was at it. 

“Fair enough.” Hanzo thought, trying to tame the lightning that threatened to burst free in a hundred different questions, a thousand different statements, a million different moments, until he finally looked on Jesse McCree and thought, “Yes, enough.” 

 

A year after Hanzo joined Overwatch, he propositioned McCree. 

“You are a confusing person, made up of many contradictions and mysteries,” he said. “I would like to know you better, and I would like you to know me in the same way. And perhaps, if you are interested, we can even have a good time. What do you say?” 

McCree stared at him like he was the first light of dawn after a very long night. 

“Darlin’,” he said, “I thought you’d never ask.” 

Hanzo laughed. 

“Fair enough.” 


End file.
